Inspiration-Guest post

You were there, sitting on your bed silently …

Like a bird waiting for Spring

The small hospice room where they put you

Looks like this branch of chestnut tree.

Your withered hands hook in their language

Your attachment to the world, your desire to leave a mark

To the  time that goes by, and your words reflect your will

To trust God, who knows your soul.

At 97, you spend days

Far from Italy that you left behind 

You’re going to fall asleep in this distant land

Whose language or saints, you don’t know .

Sweet soul, sweet woman, so withered and serene

God was injected into your veins

You radiated kindness and patience

I was learning in silence, a lesson in existence   

Poetry by Christine Frechatd

Christine is a woman par excellence. She lives in Pittsburgh owner of Art Gallery. To know more about her please check out

https://www.christinefrechardgallery.com/

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